You prance in the gray depths of my mind, behind Latin names I cannot pronounce,
 like the prettiest pony on the carousel, with its fading paint and hollow circus notes.
 The fairies of my past stitched shreds of my nostalgia to create your shining saddle,
 which explains why I am so afraid to jump up and mount your sharply arched back: 
 fourteen thousand times have I bore testament to the strength of false memories.